*The chair is tucked under the table.
It is blue with nothing to do.
A few ants crawl on it, looking for crumbs.
The chair clean as a brand new sink
with a bowl of sunshine to drink.
The ants must’ve smelled a chip bag,
most likely a kid that sat there for a snack.
They crawled off the blue chair
like soldiers who have lost a battle.
The quiet seat repeats its bland attitude,
unbothered by the ants’ departure
as it stares at the strict-looking sun.
The table admires the chair’s soul—
due to the sheer stillness it holds,
yet the air can’t fathom their shared silence.
Among the furniture and open windows,
the chair poses for more sunlight.
Lying in the opposite corner of its kin
who’s pink and stands near a rose stand
with roses strewn on both arms,
linen-laden, loosed with fruitful grace,
a queen who’s calm and delicate,
not to be treated like an object.
Though its love for sunlight is unknown.
The queen knows nothing of its beauty or flowers.
The pink chair welcomes a baby;
she sits with bubbles of joy, tapping
on its rich legs as if they were her toys.
She smiles and waits for her bottle of milk.
She thinks it's a bouncy castle. The chair tilts;
the sun magnifies this fine gem,
popping its coin-clustered eye so bold.
The air is jealous of the chair’s rosy scent
wishing to mirror such balmy essence,
it has to bear its own nature.*
9/10/25